Upside Down
by IrishTwilight
Summary: Post In My Time of Dying. "You never know what kind of person you are. Not until you actually face the situation. Face the cold black eyes and the tangy scent of blood on the air."


Takes place at the beginning of Season 2, after In My Time of Dying. OC centric.

Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ and its characters and mythology belong to the great Eric Kripke. No profit made.

**A/N:** This is a story that I've been writing on and off for a little while. I don't have a lot of time right now with school and work, but my writing is important to me so I'm trying to give myself some incentive to make time to focus on it. Also, this story is a little personal. It's my way of dealing with the themes of grief and guilt that I face in my own life. However, the plot and events themselves are not based on reality in any way -- obviously ;-)

**Chapter 1**

_I couldn't breathe._

_You always hear about people who come across accidents. In school you learn about being a bystander or taking action. And you talk to your friends and think to yourself, _'If I ever saw something like that happening, I wouldn't just stand there. I wouldn't run away. I'd do something.´

_I thought like that. I thought I was the kind of person who would be instantly launched into action by the sight of someone in pain. Enough to overcome any fear for my own safety._

_But everyone likes to think like that about themselves._

_Then I was faced with a man I loved being torn apart before my eyes._

_And the person I thought I was dissolved as if it had been a dream._

_You never know what kind of person you are. Not until you actually face the situation. Face the cold black eyes and the tangy scent of blood on the air._

*SN*SN*SN*SN*

_I dreamed I was missing and you were so scared,_

_But no one would listen, 'cause no one else cared._

_And after my dreaming, I woke with this fear._

_What am I leaving when I'm done here?_

_So if you're asking me I want you to know_

_When my time comes, forget the wrong that I've done._

_Help me leave behind some reason to me missed._

_Don't resent me, and when you're feeling empty_

_Keep me in your memory, leave out all the rest._

_Leave out all the rest._

*SN*SN*SN*SN*

"I'm heading out," I call as I poke my head into Rick's cubicle.

"Okay, see you Monday," he replies without looking up from his work.

"You should head home too," I reprimand him. "It's 6:00 on a Friday afternoon."

"I will," he promises half-heartedly. "Right after I finish this."

"Are you still not talking to me?" I ask.

This time he looks up, his face flushing.

"We cool?" I prompt, my head tilted with a smile.

"Yeah," he nods. "We're good."

"Good. See you Monday."

I leave him to his work and continue on my way out of the building. I feel a little guilty for turning him down, but I don't date co-workers as a rule. And besides that I already have a boyfriend.

I think. Things have been kind of off between us the past few days.

It's raining when I open the door so I jog in the direction of my car while fumbling in my purse for my keys, my long auburn hair falling half-hazardly over my face and turning frizzy in the rain. I narrowly miss being swiped by a slow-moving car and wave sheepishly at the driver. My cell phone begins playing the tones of Panic At The Disco's 'There's A Reason These Tables Are Numbered', but I ignore it until I'm safely ensconced in the dry car.

"Hello," I answer, slightly breathless from the jog and the near-miss.

"Kate?"

"Hi Jay, what's up?" I reply cheerily while inserting the key into the ignition and turning on the heat.

His tone soon sours my mood where Rick and the rain had failed. I didn't know what had happened, but after 3 months suddenly I don't know why we're together anymore. I ask Jay to meet me at my place tonight. He agrees begrudgingly and I head out of the parking lot slowly, with growing dread.

But I could not have anticipated the situation I was about to be thrust into. Nor the affect it would have on my everything.

*SN*SN*SN*SN*

I stop at the diner on the way home. Partially to stall for time and partially because I want to grab a dose of coffee and Martha to strengthen me for the conversation ahead.

"Ka-the-ryn!!" the robust Martha calls as soon as I enter.

I take a seat at the counter and return her wide smile, but she sees through it immediately.

"What's on your mind, sugar?" she prompts, setting down a mug in front of me and filling it with coffee. "That boyfriend of yours again?"

I smile knowingly at her. "Men. Who needs 'em?"

Martha laughs and we talk for a bit about my boy troubles.

I don't notice the stranger who's been sitting two stools down until my cup's almost empty. He looks worn, rugged, yet clean and polite. He's been eating in silence, but he seems to notice my stare right away. Instead of ignoring it, he turns and smiles warmly, boldly stretching out a hand for me to shake.

"Hi, I'm Joshua."

I take his hand a little warily, but I answer all the same. "Kathryn." I eye him carefully, "You just passing through?"

His easy smile stays in place. "Yeah, just workin' a job. I'll be movin' on soon enough." He tilts his head to me and gets up from the stool, tossing a few bills onto the counter. "Thanks, ma'am," he calls to Martha.

As I watch him leave, something about him has my curiosity piqued.

But then I remember what's waiting for me at home, and the intriguing stranger is forgotten.

*SN*SN*SN*SN*

_South Dakota. Three days later..._

The sun was ridiculously bright, reflecting off the collection of scrap cars scattered about the lot surrounding the house. The brightness forced me to squint and was in complete opposite to the ball of nervousness and foreboding deep in my gut. It should have been raining. Thundering.

The house looked like it had seen better days. Wood porch, hubcaps on the wall, peeling paint.

Before, I would have judged, but now... I wondered what had happened here that the owner no longer felt the desire to fix up the home that should have been his pride and joy.

Because sometimes a house was just a house. And the thing that makes it home can be lost, leaving you with an empty shell that needs new coats of paint and fresh boards.

I shook these thoughts to the back of my head for later musing and climbed up the steps of the porch, relieved to be in the shade. I rapped on the door and hitched my bag higher on my shoulder, shifting my feet nervously.

The door swung inward and suddenly I was face to face with Bobby Singer. He was kind of scruffy-looking, with a beard and a trucker cap, but the subliminal power of his form was evident in the smallest movements.

"Hi," I said. Then, gathering my courage, "My name is Kathryn Silvers." I held out a hand, and he took it without breaking my gaze. The scrutiny was intimidating, but I held my ground.

"Bobby Singer."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Singer. I was given your name by Joshua and I was wondering if we could talk."

At the mention of Joshua, something loosened in him. He released my hand and stepped back, gesturing me inside. "Well, then come on in and have a seat, Ms. Silvers."

"Oh, you can call me Kathryn," I allowed.

"Sure, Kathryn. If Joshua sent you I'm guessing we got lots to talk about."

He led me into a room with a slightly sagging grey couch, a stiff faded red armchair, and hundreds of books stacked on every flat surface, including the floor. I took a seat on the couch, but my host remained standing.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"A beer would be great," I replied without thinking.

His eyebrows rose slightly, but he simply entered the next room and returned with two beers. As he handed one to me he commented, " You're my kind o' woman."

I smiled. He didn't say it like a creep in a bar, more like a proud uncle.

He returned my smile with a grin of his own and took a seat on the chair facing me. I took a swallow of beer to stall for time. I had been anticipating this moment for hours and I still had no idea what to say, where to start.

But Bobby simply looked over at me and asked, "So, where you from?"

We talked for a while about Illinois. Small talk.

Was that guy ever a genius. By the time he got to the intrusive questions I had had enough beer and polite conversation to be loosened up and ready for questioning.

"So, how'd you meet Joshua?"

I took a deep breath. "He was working a job in my hometown."

"A hunt?"

"Yeah. That's what you call it?"

Bobby nodded. "And why'd he send you to me?"

That was the question I'd been dreading. I didn't have a good reason. I think Joshua saw something in me. Something that told him he couldn't just leave me behind broken. That he needed to do something for me. Stop me from doing something crazy.

After finding me with Jay's warm body, soaked in coppery, sticky blood, cradled in my lap on our living room floor.

_I didn't even register Joshua's presence until he tried to touch me. I freaked at first. I screamed once, smacked his reaching arms away and clutched more tightly to Jay._

_But I didn't move again after that. Just held Jay to me as the tears fell silently, mingling with the blood. In a detached way, I remembered an old country song I used to love. About two teardrops, one from sorrow, one from joy, that were on their way to the ocean to someday become teardrops again. The song was about the circle of life. Happy and sad. Life and death._

_Joshua must have led or carried me to his car, because the next thing I remember I was snuggled in the back of it and he was handing me a water bottle and asking me if there was someone he could call or somewhere he could take me._

_I remember vaguely wondering why he hadn't called the police. And how this random guy I'd run into at the diner had found us in the first place. But it took too much energy to care right then. Energy I felt I'd never have again._

_He took me to my stepfather's house._

_I woke up in my old room. Everything was how I'd left it six years before. The pictures on the bulletin board were snapshots of me with people I didn't talk to anymore. The stuffed animals lining the top of the dressers were gifts from people I hadn't heard from in years. I'd cut them all out. Left. Started fresh._

_The entire room was a study in nostalgia. The light rain pattered against the windowpane the same way it did when I was eight._

_I closed my eyes, listened to the rain, and pretended I was eight again, that the past 48 hours, the past sixteen years, were just a dream._

_I could almost feel my mother coming in to kiss me on the forehead and wake me for breakfast._

_The memory was so bittersweet that it started the tears again, just when I thought I must've run dry. I curled on my side, facing the window, and let the tears flow. I closed my eyes, longing for the oblivion of sleep._

_Footsteps entered the room and my stepfather sat down on the edge of the bed and laid an achingly familiar calloused hand on my shoulder._

"_Why is life never fair?" I asked the rain softly, my voice rough with tears._

_But the rain didn't answer. And neither did my stepfather. Because he didn't know anymore than I did._

*SN*SN*SN*SN*

I told Bobby all of this. And he listened patiently. When I was finished, I sat staring at the floor, desperately trying to keep my emotions firmly under control.

"So," Bobby broke the silence. "Josh sent you here."

I nodded.

He waited.

Eventually I worked up the courage to look up and meet his eyes and their unspoken questions.

"Nothing makes sense anymore," I tried to explain. "My entire world's been torn upside down. I don't know how to make sense of anything anymore and I don't feel like my life in Illinois belongs to me anymore. I don't know who I am. I just... I don't know anything anymore."

Bobby wasn't looking at me like I was crazy. In fact, he seemed to understand exactly what I meant. The relief that thought brought me was sudden and overwhelming and my eyes filled with tears despite my best efforts.

"I wanted to come here and get answers," I continued. "But now, I have no idea where to start... which questions to ask to get me the answers that will fix my life."

Bobby just grinned sadly. "That's not surprising."

Then he stood. "Come on, you must be exhausted from your trip. I've got a room you can use."

I wiped the tears from my cheeks and stood, protesting, "Oh, I wouldn't want to –"

"Nonsense," Bobby cut me off with a wave of his arm. "It's no trouble. Right this way, it's upstairs." He turned and led the way without waiting for my agreement so I picked up my bag and followed him.

I was tired, I admitted to myself while trudging up the stairs. But I didn't think I could sleep. I'd been too tense, keyed up, and emotional to sleep. And I was terrified. I hadn't ceased being terrified since I came home to find Jay...

But when we got to the bedroom, Bobby showed me all the usual things – the bed, dresser, bathroom, extra blanket – but then he guided me over to the window and pulled aside the curtains. At first I thought he was going to show me the view, but then I noticed the line of salt along the length of the window sill and the markings drawn with grease pencil in the corners of the windowpanes.

"These are important," Bobby stressed. "Don't break the salt line. It keeps things out."

I thought back to a movie I'd once seen where multiple characters stay at a vineyard in France and each of them removes the box of lavender from the windowsill of their room, not realizing it was there to keep scorpions out. But I knew Bobby wasn't referring to scorpions.

The intense look he was giving me made me remember black smoke fleeing in an arch.

I stared at the row of salt and the occult-looking symbols as Bobby put a firm hand on my shoulder and said, "Get some rest. You're safe from everything here."

And I suddenly thought maybe I could sleep after all.

*SN*SN*SN*SN*

A loud noise woke me, and within seconds I was out from under the covers, crouched nimbly on the bed, watching the door, breathing heavily.

"Shit! Sorry, Bobby. The door got away from me."

Easing my breathing, I crept to the door and pulled it open softly, wanting to better hear.

"Careful, boys, I've got a guest upstairs."

"A guest? Don't let us interrupt you." The voice was full of sly innuendo.

Bobby's gruff tones corrected the assumption. "Not that kind of guest, you idjit. Joshua sent her. She's been through some horrible demonic shit. She needs some time to deal."

A softer voice added to the conversation, "Sure thing, Bobby. How's she doing?"

"I don't rightly know yet. She seems mighty shook up."

I closed the door again with the softest click. The adrenaline rush of waking to a noise in the middle of the night in a strange bed faded with the strong, comforting voices from the main floor and my knees went weak.

*SN*SN*SN*SN*

The problem with sleep is that the walls around my emotions that I had been solidifying fell down and the familiar nightmares wormed their way through.

I soon found myself curled up against the headboard, sobbing like a child.

Eventually I quieted down, and lay curled there, too emotionally spent to move. When I next opened my eyes, the room was dark.

I heard near-silent footsteps approach the door and closed my eyes, not wanting to have to deal with anything right then. The door swung open with a soft creak, but I didn't hear anyone enter. I heard a soft rustle, though, and then a quilt was being laid over me, tucked in gently around me. There was a pause, then I felt the intruder move away.

I peeked through my lashes and was rewarded with the striking silhouette of Dean Winchester making his way from the room.

*SN*SN*SN*SN*

The next morning I awoke to the sound of low voices and the smell of breakfast. I cleaned up and got dressed and then made my way downstairs, following the voices to the kitchen.

They were quiet, but the sound carried easily in the early morning air. The conversation fell silent as I stood in the doorway, unsure of my welcome.

I wasn't sure Bobby had noticed me, but as he turned back to the stove he threw over his shoulder, "You're up early. Have a seat."

Surprised, I did as he asked, taking the seat across from the taller stranger and to the left of the other.

When I finally met their eyes, I saw no surprise there. They hadn't let on, but all three men had known I was there probably from the second I entered the hall.

The young man across the table extended a hand across it. "I'm Sam," he offered. He looked kind enough, but rough, like he hadn't slept in a few days. And his friend beside him looked worse.

I shook the proffered hand and answered, "Kathryn."

He nodded his chin at the man to his left. "This is my brother, Dean."

Dean just nodded. I could tell he was in a mood, maybe as simple as the early morning, and I wasn't self-centered enough to assume it was because of my presence. Something was going on that had nothing to do with me and I suddenly felt very regretful of showing up here and intruding. But here I was, so I decided to try to lighten the tension in the room a little with some simple conversation.

"So, is Bobby your father?"

There was a simultaneous flinch from everyone in the room, and no one would meet my eyes.

I didn't know what was going on, but that was all the courage I had, so I made to get up from the table and retreat outside.

Before I made it halfway to my feet, Bobby was beside my chair, blocking my exit and setting a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon in front of me.

"Good as," was all he said. "Have some breakfast." He turned back to the counter and grabbed two more plates heaped with food, placing them in front of the brothers. "You too. Eat up. I don't want to see anything left on those plates."

Bobby grabbed his own plate, then sat in the empty seat at the table and began eating with gusto. Reluctantly, Sam and Dean followed suit.

I gave in to my uncomfortable circumstance and picked up my fork as well. Trying to quell the uncomfortable knotting in my stomach enough that I could eat, I distracted myself by watching the two newcomers. As I watched them eat slowly, I wondered why I hadn't seen it right away.

Why I hadn't recognized it from myself.

Grief.

*SN*SN*SN*SN*SN*

After finishing his breakfast, Bobby announced he had some work to do outside and would be back later. Sam and Dean, after clearing their plates as ordered, headed off in separate directions, but with mirroring movements that gave away the fact that they were brothers.

It wasn't 'til Dean got up and left the room that I recognized him from the night before. I almost called him back, but from just the twenty minutes I'd known him, I could tell he wasn't the kind of guy who would admit to the care he had shown in the daylight.

Alone in the kitchen, curious about their grief and feeling weighed down by my own, I didn't feel like moving. I laid my cheek on my folded arms atop the worn wooden table and watched the breeze move the curtains, bright green in the sunlight.

It was insane to think that such peace could exist in the midst of this crazy, horrifying, lonely mess my life had become. And I couldn't give into it completely. The tightness in my chest just wouldn't go away. I wasn't sure it ever would. Or even if I should want it to. If I should want to forget. Or deserved to.

That thought angered me, so I pushed myself up from the table and collected the dishes, making a few trips to carry them to the counter and starting to run some soapy water in the sink.

As I washed the dishes, I found the familiar, monotonous task soothing and unnerving at the same time. Like as good as it felt, I shouldn't be just standing in a kitchen. My life as I knew it was gone forever. I should be doing something, anything, other than the dishes. I have no idea what.

So I ignored these thoughts and forced my focus to the soothing scrubbing motion of my hands.

I was so deep in my mind that I was startled when a hand appeared in my line of vision and removed a plate from the dish rack. I turned to see Sam, towel in hand, tentative smile on his face.

I returned the smile, surprised. "Hey."

"Thought you could use some help," he offered by way of explanation. But I heard the unvoiced, _I could use some company_.

"Thanks," I accepted. Now that we were both standing, I was a little – okay a lot – intimidated by his height. Sam was almost a foot taller than me, and the courage he seemed to have found since breakfast filled out the shoulders that had been slouched, making him appear even larger.

"So, how do you know Bobby?" he asked, making conversation.

I smiled and shook my head. "I don't really. I just met him yesterday." I didn't really want to get into the whole story. The conversation and menial task was starting to make me feel more relaxed than I had in a long while and I didn't want to ruin it, so I turned the conversation around. "How do you know him?"

Sam opened the correct cupboard door on the first try and returned the clean plate to the pile on the second shelf without thought, answering my question with that gesture.

"When Dean and I were growing up, we moved around a lot because of our Dad's job. Bobby was a friend of our Dad's and this is one of the few places we stayed at more than once, one of the few places we came close to calling home. We used to call him 'Uncle Bobby'," Sam reminisced with a chuckle.

"Does your Dad have a job like Bobby's?" I asked as he took another plate.

He turned to meet my eyes, regarding me carefully, as if gauging how much to say. "Yes, he did."

Noting the use of the past tense, I read the truth in his eyes and knew what the grief was for. "I'm sorry," I offered quietly. As silly as it had sounded when the friends and relatives lined up to say it to me, it was all I could think to offer.

And he took it gratefully, nodding his thanks and returning another dish to the cupboard.

I turned back to the dishes, scrubbing as I thought of something else to say. I wanted to give him something back, return the honesty. So, without looking at him, studying the suds in the sink, I whispered, "My world fell apart four days ago. That's why I came here to Bobby's. Because someone thought that maybe this is what I needed to put my life back together." I looked up at Sam to gauge his reaction.

He was looking at me with earnest eyes, accepting our common experience of grief. And appearing to understand exactly what I wasn't saying. He asked a question that got right to the heart of what I was trying to say. "What are you looking for here?"

I took a deep breath. "The truth. So that maybe I can rebuild my world around it."

Sam nodded and reached for a cup. "Then you've come to the right place."

*SN*SN*SN*SN*SN*

It seemed like a bold pronouncement, but as the days went by it proved to be true. I eventually found my rhythm in the household. Although it was apparent that Sam and Dean did not live there all the time, and that there was something between them that was throwing off their camaraderie, it was equally evident that they were comfortable and had spent enough time here to have developed fluidity. There were moments of candor, but for the most part Dean was quiet and avoided conversation where not necessary. If forced to participate, he would put on a smile and join in with sarcastic comments and good-natured teasing. But there was still something in his eyes.

For me, at that point in my life, it was the perfect place. I was confused, reeling, but the strength and honesty of the men of this salvage yard exuded security, stability, comfort … even as they discussed things that threatened to shake the very foundations of my mind.

Spirits, werewolves, wendigos, tulpas … all were discussed over meals and in the extensive library. While Dean and Bobby worked outside, Sam spent most of his time reading strange books and all I would have to do is sit down beside him and he'd suddenly be pointing and explaining telling stories about some obscure myth.

For my part, I was quiet. I took part in the moments of levity and quietly absorbed all that they said without protest and rarely with questions. At first, I would begin to argue, to protest the illogicality of the things they presented as facts. But the more I observed, the more I saw in their eyes, the more I realized that I was the one who had been living in the dark. I was the one who needed to see reason.

Days went by, and only one topic was not discussed.

The word I'd learned from Joshua:

Demon.

TBC

_Thanks so much for reading. I'd be honoured if you'd take the time to let me know what you thought._

_A/N: _The movie with the vineyard in France and the scorpions is "A Good Year".

The song Kathryn remembers is "Two Teardrops" by Steve Wariner. It's one of my favourites.

.com/watch?v=wbNFfPmUq_s

_Last night I was sittin' in a waiting room_

_A nurse walked up, gave me the news_

"_It's a baby girl and they're both fine."_

_Old man sittin' not ten feet away,_

_Just lost his wife, and he said to me,_

"_You've got a brand new angel and I've lost mine._

_I guess the good Lord giveth and the good Lord taketh away."_

_And we both wiped a teardrop from our face._

_Oh, the ocean's a little bit bigger tonight._

_Two more teardrops somebody cried,_

_One of them happy and one of them bluer than blue._

_The tide goes out and the tide comes in,_

_A whole new circle of life begins_

_Where tears are a part of the pleasure, a part of the pain._

'_Til they drift on down and ride to the sea again._


End file.
